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You are no longer him, you are she
until the autumn morning rises.
You locked your jailer in that castle,
in that prison of a dark and traitorous male.
Your lyrics are true
and witnesses of stories that exist
you always have a good thought
an eloquent idea and
the right words to say so much...
You don't seem to touch the cement, you are suspended on your heels, almost made of patent leather and almost your number,
heels that want to touch the sky,
fundamental companions of feeling like a diva, and Queen in your walk.
You name yourself a lioness for the ambassadors of your skin,
for all those who have woken up in your nakedness,
for those who have slept in the shelter of your hallucinogenic and semi-vaginal jungle.
Queen and sovereign of your corner,
lady and tramp,
I see you go, Nocturnal butterfly